


I Remember All Of Them

by AGreySunset (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bucky Barnes & Wanda Maximoff Friendship, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes-centric, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M, Minor Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Minor Original Character(s), Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Past Abuse, Peter Parker is a Good Bro, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Torture, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-02-27 04:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13240368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/AGreySunset
Summary: I thought I could survive on my own. It wasn't that I didn't want the Avengers to protect, but more that I didn't deserve it. So, after an arguement, I ran.Of course, that was a gross overestimation fueled by illogical emotions. And because of that, I got my ass handed to me, and ended up right where I started, in a metal chair, leather straps on my arms.I think they put the Hydra symbol right above me on purpose.





	I Remember All Of Them

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a recovery fic for Bucky Barnes, and each chapter title will be one of the words in the red book. They'll tie into the plot of the chapter.
> 
> Just a heads up, this will include some pretty mature content, violence, torture, murder, cussing, depression/PTSD. It won't have any smut or sexual stuff. Definite romance though.

I can't stay. 

I wish he understood, but he doesn't. 

He's been gone seventy years. Nothing happened those years. For him, at least. But for   
me, it's been eternity since we shared an apartment. Coming home to that worn, brick building,   
meeting him in the doorway, falling asleep in his arms. 

We were brothers, to anyone that asked, due to unaccepting people. It didn't matter,   
though, I didn't need a certificate to tell he loved me. It had been like this since we were sixteen,   
walking home from school, and he just kissed me. We had known each other for a decade then,   
but it still felt good to be more than the best of friends. 

But that, that heaven, didn't include me. That was Bucky Barnes. And between that   
peaceful oasis and now, he died, gave up in that hell. And the Winter Soldier rose. 

And the Winter Soldier fell. 

And now, I'm not either, Bucky or the Asset. I'm just James. After everything, I just   
couldn't stay. 

He didn't understand. 

He was pushing me hard. Maybe too hard. He wanted me to remember, tried to help. But   
he had gotten a little too loud, a tad too close, a bit too urgent. I yelled, he yelled, I left. 

And here I am. 

Some festival is going on, a crowded, colorful area. Trees with lights, soft lamps, groups   
of people wrapped in tight coats, breath drifting away and cooling in the biting winter air. I blend   
into the people, finding the densest spot. My boots clap against the near frozen cement, and my   
right arm is working double time to keep it from freezing, but I don't care. 

I elbow my way into the thick flood, and with a hoodie and in this crowd? I'm hidden, but   
trapped. 

Pick your poison. 

It can't hurt to enjoy myself, so I watch, while staying alert. 

A small, wooden stage is set up, rickety, but it only holds two people, belting out carols   
with a unbridled cheer. The microphones are quite unnecessary considering their exceptional   
lungs They don't look sober, and they sound like shit, but the crowd is screaming the words right   
along, so I half heartedly join in, mostly just stomping my feet to some modern tune. 

It goes like this for about an hour. At least, if the clock tower is to be trusted. Dozens   
have had seconds of fame, singing festive songs I don't remember, and eating sticky treats. 

I decide it can't hurt to find a hotel, I'll need to at least try to rest. I'll head over to Steve's   
place tomorrow, to apologize, I was being a jackass. I break out of the crowd, and step onto the   
cracked sidewalk. There's a motel nearby, just north. I glance at the cars in the street, waiting for   
a black BMW to go before I step out. Despite some nasty looks, I make it across fine, only   
flipping a couple people off. 

My pace quickens as the building comes within view, and I adjust my hoodie, heading for   
relative safety. A door slams shut, and from the souvenir shop to my right comes three men. I   
memorize their faces, and all of them are laughing, three sheets to the wind. They then have a   
giggling goodbye, and the one closest to being sober speeds up, slowly passing by me, to my   
right. He's within arm's length. The most intoxicated of the trio stumbles about two meters   
behind me. 

With the last of them just behind me, on my left, it's clear I'm being followed. They   
surround and outnumber me, and I know more lie in wait. 

Damn good thing I know how to fight. 

My left arm slams into the gut of the one directly behind me, flipping him over. I use a   
little more force than necessary, and he meets the pavement. 

The one to my right comes crashing towards me, and side step, and he starts to slow,   
but I knew him hard in the small of his back, and he goes tumbling. 

The last one, the one behind me, lets out a bellow, and from both sides of the street,   
men in dark clothing and weapons flood out of buildings. Another comes at me, with a throwing   
knife, but he doesn't hold it right and I pry it from his grip. 

Right at that moment, I feel something sharp in my neck, and the entire world goes   
blurry. I start to stumble, grabbing a lampost. I also feel something in my back, and my right calf,   
and my right shoulder. The knife clatters to the asphalt. 

Even with the serum, I can't hold off four needles pumped with sedatives for much   
longer. But I'm still awake, and I want to snap as many necks as possible. 

I push through the pain, and the agents surrounding me shout in surprise. They were   
expecting me to just go down. They'll be disappointed. My fist slams into the nearest one, metal   
smacking against flesh. I grab his arm, twisting his wrist. I can't help but pause at the audible   
pop, but the pistol slips from his grip and I grab it. 

My boot meets his throat, and he flies backwards. He crashes into a shop's window, and   
he's down. 

Thing is, I will be soon too. 

I feel like I'm trudging through mud. It takes effort and each blow I land is a little softer, a   
little less accurate. Two more guards, and my fist misses the target, the face, entirely, and grabs   
my hand, my knuckles straining to be free. He twists my wrist, pushing my knuckle back slightly. 

My body sways, unbalanced, as the room grays in front of me. My body feels distant,   
remote, and my head is too close, I can't take in my rushing thoughts, and the room starts to   
fade. It blurs, my eyes unfocused, and when I convince my eyes to move, it looks smudged. 

Something falls to my side, my hand? People are slowly approaching me, cautious.   
They're silhouettes pixelate, and then streak to the side, they're moving for fast for me to keep   
up. 

My head buzzes, aching, maybe? Wait, the guards aren't moving, I'm falling. I just hit the   
cement. 

That's gonna hurt tomorrow. 

 

I thought I could survive on my own. It wasn't that I didn't want the Avengers to protect   
me, but more that I didn't deserve it. So, after an argument, I ran. 

Of course, that was a gross overestimation fueled by illogical emotions. And because of   
that, I got my ass handed to me, and ended up right where I started, in a metal chair, leather   
straps on my arms. 

I think they put the Hydra symbol right above me on purpose. 

It's been a while since they checked on me, which is just fine with me. I wouldn't mind if   
they all rotted in hell, in fact, I'd bring the good stuff. Still, the isolation probably means   
punishment or experiment incoming. I dread that with my being, and yet, I decide to enjoy this   
while it lasts. They'll have to get awfully creative to surprise me. 

They’ll probably wipe me first. Then do more messed up shit. 

Sure enough, a white-coated brunette comes in with a clipboard.   
Hell is empty and all the devils are here. 

 

It's been weeks since I saw his face, I know that, and yet I can't remember it. At least I   
know why. According to a partner of mine, Mallory, a vigilante, I suppose, I had been caught by   
Hydra. Steve, the man in the threshold of my hideout, had offered me an olive branch, for some   
reason. But I left, to chase fantasies of arrogance and thoughts of self dependence, and here I   
am, with an open cut running down my right arm from breaking out of a Hydra facility. 

It wasn't even that hard, after they went public, the few stations yet to be found became   
less than bulletproof. 

Good thing I'm stronger than a bullet. 

Yet, due to my cockiness, due to my capture, I can't remember what I ate for breakfast   
this morning. If I had it. Probably. They usually feed me, then either wipe or experiment me,   
send me on a mission, shove me in a freezer. Though, I'm relying on my memory, not exactly a   
foolproof plan. 

I was about to be shipped off to a country I don't even know the name of, still a clean   
slate, before memories come back. Not that they ever really do, but as soon as I'm awake, they   
start bleeding through the brainwashing, faint, blurry, but they exist, and damn it, that means   
something. 

It only took three casualties. Not good people. Hydra. At least that's what I wish they   
were. Barely helps ease the guilt, mostly for my last kill, barely an adult. I could wonder who he   
was, what they told him, who's buying flowers, but I don't aim for insanity. 

"I don't know what to say." His dark, umber eyes met Steve's clear, azure ones. 

"Do you know me? Do... Do you remember? Me, the war, anything?" 

There's pain in his voice. His words sound like they're trying to crawl down his throat. His   
muscles are tense, but unlike me, he's not ready for a fight. I, however, always anticipate an   
attack, the main reason I'm not dead, stabbed in the back, drowned in the Atlantic, trapped in a   
burning building. It's not like I haven't been assaulted before. 

People have gotten close, but I'm still standing. Somehow, whoever he is still is too. 

He can't quite meet my gaze. He might just be disappointed. 

I don't know why. 

"Bucky, do you know who I am?" 

The words are slow, careful, emphasized. Yet, they're not forceful, nor threatening. His   
feet are shuffling, sending dust swirling and glowing in the sun. More light comes in than you'd   
think from the aging, residue fogging the panes. Rays still come in, illuminating the wrecked,   
gray building. It halos his fair hair from behind, turning it copper, and I know I've seen him   
before. 

"... I don't know." 

His face knots up and he flinches. He knows me enough that having that unrequited   
hurts. Either he's one hell of an actor, or he legitimately cares. 

Don't know why he'd give a shit about me, I'm nothing more than a slave, a gun with   
dreams of domestic grandeur, hopes of freedoms. I'm just the Winter Soldier. 

"I should. I did." 

Recently too. His face ... I can't place it. But I've seen him recently. The memories never   
come back for long. 

"You were doing so we- ... nevermind. I'm known as Captain America, or Steve Rogers.   
Do you know who you are?" 

My spine goes taut at the name. I... I just barely recognize it. I did know it. I once trusted   
him. 

"Captain America... I remember you." Something flickers in his eyes, a flash of warm,   
goopy hope. He takes a step towards me, chin up, before I continue. 

"... They briefed me on you. You were a 'threat' to be 'neutralized.'" 

He seems to collapse on himself, slouching down and making a small sound, defeated   
and hurt. He looks up, straight at me, begging with aqua eyes brimming with hope. 

"Do you believe them? Do you think I'm a threat?" His voice is desperate, as if he wants   
something he can't have. He takes a step forward, slowly, feet sliding. 

"If you were trying to kill me, you wouldn't have your guard down." Simple logic. Still   
don't trust him. 

"Do you think Hydra is a threat? To you?" 

... 

They don't have me now, but it would still be foolish to speak ill of them. They will catch   
me, and then they could punish me, it wasn't like they don't have the means. Leather straps,   
sparking tasers, blunt metal, sharp points, biting down on plastic to keep from screaming. Scars   
mark each on of these occasions, and I already have too many. 

And yet, the word falls out. 

"Yes." Something releases in my chest, some fear dissipates. For years, he had grown to   
hate Hydra, but suffocated his feelings. I am a murderer. I shouldn't have them, shouldn't   
deserve them. But I feel, and now? I don't give a fuck about punishments. 

"Not like they give a shit about anything but my efficiency. Not like they ever... asked   
me?" Wait. Did they? What if? No... I never would have said yes, at least not with full knowledge   
of everything. It’s not like I wanted to be a soldier, not really, let alone for Nazis 

"You don't think I'm a threat, and you think they are. If you come with me- ..." 

"I said you weren't a threat, not that I trust you." 

“Bucky, do you think I’d hurt you? I… I knew you.” He’s so genuine I can’t help but melt a   
little. No, I can’t, I don’t get attached. I have walls, to prevent this. People, places, things, none   
of them matter. I just complete the mission. That’s it, there isn’t anymore, so why does he   
matter? He shouldn’t, he doesn’t, but he does, and I don’t know why. 

I shouldn’t, but I show emotion. I take a deep breath, before looking away. My steel limb   
tightens on its flesh counterpart. In the corner of my eyes, I see him step forward, hesitant. He’s   
approaching me like I’m some some sort of wounded animal. Disabled, but still possibly   
dangerous. 

“Put down the shield.” 

He complies, and he puts his hands above his hands. “Search me, I’m clean.” 

I lightly graze my hands over him, and he isn’t bluffing. No back ups. He trusts me. 

Something conflicted comes over me. Why would I go? My trust in him is non-exist and   
his excuses are half-assed. He got the serum too. He might be able to take me down. It’s   
dangerous. A gamble. 

But if I win, if he’s on my side, I’ve got the Avengers between me and Hydra. He can   
protect me, I can hide, I won’t go back… for a while. It won’t last, nothing does, but I might make   
some memories, the type that come back with time, that fuel some tender part of me. 

And even if he’s not my ally, I can get answers. About Bucky Barnes, not the Winter   
Soldier. Information is priceless, and this is personal. Especially useful, and something to be   
guarded. 

“Where did you park the car?”


End file.
